


not even a name

by LearnedFoot



Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Fix-It, Getting Together, Healing, M/M, Names
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:48:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25942363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LearnedFoot/pseuds/LearnedFoot
Summary: He has nothing to give but his faith and his desperate need for this not to end the way it clearly will. So he does the one thing he can do: he forces himself to calm his breathing, to focus his mind. To stop the desperate sobbing and put the words in the correct order. To fold his hands, now stained with the mute’s blood, together in his lap.To supplicate himself before God and pray, properly this time, for a miracle.Or: Really, just a simple fix-it.
Relationships: Brother Diarmuid/The Mute
Comments: 16
Kudos: 66
Collections: Limited Theatrical Release 2020





	not even a name

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spock/gifts).



> A just-over-the-wire treat for you. I just adored your thoughts on this movie so much, I couldn't resist.
> 
> CNTW only because of Diarmuid's ambiguous canon age.

Diarmuid does not remember making the choice to turn back, cannot recall the words that fell from his lips. He knows only the thrum of his heartbeat in his chest and the sting of saltwater in his eyes as waves are tossed by wind and paddle. And then land, and the ragged pain of breath he can barely catch as he barrels across the sand towards fallen figures, foes and friend alike.

 _Friend_.

That is the only figure he cares for, in this moment. He cannot think of the others, the limbs and blood staining the path between himself and the body he knows immediately, even from afar.

If he knew it, he would scream his friend’s name, let his cry be a prayer for something, anything other than the inevitable. How can he implore God to intervene when he does not know whose life to plead for? He asks anyway, sobbing his way across the sand, scraps of whatever verses come into his brain tumbling nonsensically from his lips, mixing with _please_ and _let him live—_ less pious entreaty than begging, raw and improper and selfish.

And yet, when he finally reaches the mute—his friend, this man whose name he suddenly wishes he knew with an urgency he cannot explain—there is still breath there. It is shallow and stuttered, wet in a way that reminds Diarmuid of old Brother Suibne in his last days. He’d been scared of the sound back then, a child hiding behind Brother Ciarán’s robes as the last rites were read; now it is more beautiful than any hymn, because it is _breath_ , and with breath, hope.

Stupid hope, perhaps. He is not blind: he sees the cruel weapon protruding from the mute’s stomach. His chest barely rises and his eyes do not open, not even when Diarmuid places his hands on his face, repeating _friend, friend, friend_ in his native tongue, a language he is not sure the mute can fully understand. The smell of blood sticks to the mute’s skin, alongside the scent of sweat, so heavy it fills Diarmuid’s mouth. He scrambles to remember what little medicine his brothers taught him, fighting against his mind’s urge to turn away. It does not matter that he cannot recall: he has no herbs with him, and he never learned to help with a wound so gaping.

He has nothing to give but his faith and his desperate need for this not to end the way it clearly will. So he does the one thing he can do: he forces himself to calm his breathing, to focus his mind. To stop the desperate sobbing and put the words in the correct order. To fold his hands, now stained with the mute’s blood, together in his lap.

To supplicate himself before God and pray, properly this time, for a miracle.

\---

God answers. Not, perhaps, in a way that would be ratified by Rome, but Diarmuid knows it must be he who keeps breath in the mute’s lips for hours, and who turns the heart of the boatman to kindness. That man, who has no reason not to walk away in disgust after the disaster they brought upon him, rushes off with words Diarmuid cannot find the strength to register, and then, when the sun has begun to retreat and Diarmuid’s voice has gone hoarse from constant whispered prayer, returns. Better yet, he brings friends, a barrel big enough to fit a person, and a healer woman who gently pulls Diarmuid away so she can get to work.

Diarmuid is too exhausted to do much more than nod, looking on as the woman barks rapid instructions and the men carefully lift the mute into the barrel. He stumbles after them as they head towards the hills, numb with disbelief and gratitude. Gratitude for these men, this woman, God.

For, most of all, the relic he left behind. Because as they make their way to what he is assured is safety, he realizes the healer woman is wearing a bracelet of charms that tinkle like bells on the wind.

\---

The healer woman lays the mute on a pile of blankets in her hut. The small space fills with smoke from a fire to keep him warm and the chatter of two young girls who help the healer work, fetching water and rags and herbs. Diarmuid offers to help, but he sways on his feet as he says it, so the men drag him off. They force him to choke down bread and milk, ignoring his protests that he should be by his friend’s side. It feels like sacrilege to feed himself when the mute is the one who needs life right now, but as one of the men points out, it does no one any good if Diarmuid passes out from hunger.

“Gillie knows the old magic,” one of the men tells him, hand landing with a heavy thump on his back. “She will keep your friend alive.”

Diarmuid smiles weakly and does not correct the man. Perhaps there is nothing to correct; all is in God’s hands, but God may have brought this healer so she could use the old magic to answer Diarmuid’s prayers.

When he returns to the healer’s hut—Gillie, he reminds himself, her name is Gillie, he should not be rude—she refuses to let him help, tutting that he does not have the correct hands. But, to his surprise, she also does not stop him from kneeling at the mute’s side or protest the steady stream of whispered prayer he keeps up for the rest of the night.

Eventually, the heat of the fire and the exhaustion of everything that has happened become too much to bear, and Diarmuid slips from kneeling to sitting. His knees ache from the hard clay floor, but he would let them ache for hours more, days more, if only he could keep his eyes open. If only, if only he could—

\---

To his surprise, when he awakes the next morning he is still with the mute, though someone brought him a pile of blankets to sleep on and placed another over him. Probably the same someone who kept the fire going and left a plate with a chunk of bread by his side. He glances up, thanking God for the kindness of these people.

Based on the pale light streaming in from the hut’s one small window, it is early; the time of day when everything smells wet and fresh. If they were back at the monastery—better yet, if they had never left, if Diarmuid had never been forced to taste the bitterness of the wider world—he would be in morning prayer, looking forward to another day spent in the steady work of keeping the place running. The mute would be at his side. Not during prayer, of course, but for the rest of it. Maybe this would be one of the days the brothers sent them on a long, rambling task, collecting moss and medicinal flowers from a nearby forest, say, or fishing for the night’s supper.

Those were always his favorite days: just the two of them, Diarmuid able to talk freely because he was sure the mute enjoyed his words. He would catch him smiling, sometimes, when he thought Diarmuid was too distracted to notice. Those smiles were rare but precious, and Diarmuid held them close to his heart.

But they aren’t back at the monastery. They are here, Diarmuid’s body aching from the unfamiliar strain of anxiety, the mute still breathing but not more than that. Diarmuid had not known how much he values his friend’s eyes, but now that they are closed to him they’re all he wants to see.

In absence of his eyes, Diarmuid takes in the rest of him, bare from the waist up, except for the place where a rag covers his wound. The bulk of his muscle and the twisted tapestry of scars is startling. Diarmuid has seen the mute without a shirt before, but never this close. Not since they first took him in, anyway, and he had been much thinner back then, wasting away near to nothing. Now he is strong, thick and solid, large in a way that makes Diarmuid want to crawl on top of him and burrow down, drinking in the safety those muscles can provide. The safety that has been provided, over and over, in ways both brutal and beautiful; ripping life from another’s body to save Diarmuid, yes, but also the steady, constant work of the monastery. 

What is he supposed to do without his protector? He destroyed the relic, and with it lost his place at his old home, he is sure. How could he possibly face them again? But if not them, then what?

If he has the mute with him, he can find a way. He’s sure of that, too. But if not…

He does not dare to think.

“Please,” he whispers, carefully placing his hand over the mute’s heart. This time it is not God he’s begging, but the man in front of him. “Please don’t leave me. I don’t—I don’t know what to do now. I don’t want to do it without you.”

The mute stirs under his hand, shifting. Towards the sound of his voice, maybe. His skin is warm, and Diarmuid thinks he can feel his heart beating faster, as if his body is trying to respond to the request.

Perhaps it is wishful thinking, but he repeats his plea, just in case. Repeats it and repeats it, until whispers die in a parched mouth and his prayers are reduced to a constant loop in his head, to God or the mute or whatever force keeps the old magic working: _please, please, please_.

\---

It goes on like that for days. He keeps expecting to be kicked out of the hut, but other than insisting he leave when she changes the mute’s bandages—which Diarmuid suspects is for his own benefit more than that of anyone else—Gillie does not stop him from staying at the mute’s side, praying and touching and sleeping, each night pressing closer until he rests draped across the mute’s chest, fingers splayed along the worst of his scars.

Despite continuing to insist he cannot help with the healing, on the fourth day Gillie allows Diarmuid to wash the mute’s body with a wet cloth, warning him to be gentle. Mindful of her words, he barely presses down as he rubs away the grime of battle and their failed pilgrimage. Dirt and blood mix on the cloth until he cannot tell the difference. He is glad to do away with both.

As he works, he explores the mute’s scars carefully, learning their varying shapes and textures: some jagged and raised, some smooth like burns, some so pale he almost misses them. Those must be from long ago. From wars that are distant memories, or maybe before that: a childhood Diarmuid knows nothing about, but which left its mark to be discovered here, all these years later, by Diarmuid’s curious fingers.

It bothers him, not knowing that history, or even the name of the man whose skin his hands come to memorize. Worse is the realization that it never bothered him before. There’s something selfish in the way Diarmuid had been content to think of this man as the mute, or as friend, companion—shadow. Not that it never occurred to him to ask about his name, but the mute had merely shrugged him off, and he had accepted it as easily as he had accepted his devotion.

“I’m sorry,” he says, as if the mute can hear him. “When you wake up, I will find a way to learn everything about you.”

The mute makes a sound, barely more than a soft huff of air, but that does not stop Diarmuid’s heart from leaping.

“Can you hear me?” he asks.

There is no reply, but he’s so encouraged he allows himself to ramble something other than prayer as he continues the washing. He talks about his own childhood, before his mother became ill and his father sent him to be with the monks. He does not speak about it, most of the time—does not remember enough to make it worth speaking about, just snippets of songs and games played in a garden that he thinks belonged to a friend—but that means it is a part of himself the mute does not already know. If the mute can hear, the least Diarmuid can do is provide him with new stories to keep him entertained.

And to, he hopes, remind him why life is worth clinging to.

\---

That night, he considers sleeping further away, suddenly shy despite the mute giving no further signs of consciousness. But he cannot bring himself not to touch his friend. Curling against him makes Diarmuid feel safer, though he knows the mute would not be able to rise to protect him. With skin against skin, he can at least be sure of the mute’s heartbeat and his breathing.

“I hope this is acceptable,” he says, tucking his head under the mute’s chin. “If it is not, I apologize. It’s only that I enjoy being close to you.”

There is no response.

\---

No response until the next morning, when Diarmuid wakes to find the mute’s arms wrapped around him. He looks up; dark eyes stare down at him, bright and very much alive.

Diarmuid feels himself smile for the first time in days. The mute does not smile back, but his grip around Diarmuid’s shoulder and waist tightens, which is the same thing.

“I missed you,” Diarmuid whispers. He allows his hand to snake along the mute’s stomach until it rests at his hip, below the bandages. “I was so scared I lost you. Please don’t do that again.”

The mute makes another huffing sound. The hand at Diarmuid’s shoulder moves up and up until the mute’s strong fingers are in his hair instead, where they tangle, guiding Diarmuid’s head back to the mute’s chest. Diarmuid does not need words to hear the message clearly: the mute would do it again in an instant. Will, if it becomes necessary.

He will always protect Diarmuid.

That is the moment Diarmuid realizes he must find them a life where peace prevails; where the mute’s protection will never have to mean his death.

\---

Once the idea is in his head, he vibrates with energy, ready to forge their new path, but healing does not work on Diarmuid’s schedule. The mute’s consciousness is a tentative, flighty thing over the following week, and Gillie warns Diarmuid not to overwhelm him.

“Love is good for healing,” she explains one afternoon, shooing Diarmuid out of the hut. “But you must give him time to rest.”

 _Love_.

Diarmuid considers the word. He has always associated it with his devotion to God, and the soft, quiet affection he has for his brothers. Is it also the word for the burning panic of seeing the mute lying in the sand, or the way his throat goes dry at the idea that this healing could still fail? What about the desperate thanks he gives to God for every breath the mute takes? Or the longing he feels for the mute’s arms and muscle and scars; the desire to be wrapped around that body, always, assured of the beating of his heart?

He cannot think of a better word, so perhaps it is the right one.

\---

Over the following days, as the mute rests, Diarmuid gets to know the small village. He offers his services doing chores to anyone he can find, to thank them all for their kindness in taking them in, providing food and shelter and clean clothing and the services of a healer who surely has others to mend. Some are uninterested in a little monk—little _former_ monk, he has to remind himself again and again—but others accept his work. By the time the mute can sit and eat on his own, Diarmuid has a plan.

“There is a man here who has a brother who runs a farm a day’s journey away,” he explains eagerly, as he watches the mute carefully sip warm broth. His hands no longer shake as he holds the bowl, which seems like a good sign. “He was in town looking for a farmhand and has agreed to take us both, as long as we share the barn for sleeping. He wanted an answer before he left and you were not awake, so I agreed. Was that the right thing?”

Diarmuid trembles as he waits for the answer, suddenly shy, as he had been when he lay by the unconscious mute’s side, unsure if he was wanted there. He cannot say entirely why such intimacy makes him blush, but he knows in a way he cannot name that he is asking about more than sleeping quarters.

The mute places the bowl on the ground next to him, careful not to spill. And then, just as carefully, he reaches out until he brushes Diarmuid’s cheek, then his lips. His fingers tremble, but when Diarmuid reaches up to press his hand closer, he realizes his are as well.

It is not because of the injury.

“That’s settled then,” Diarmuid whispers, lips grazing the mute’s fingertips.

The mute nods and does not move his hand. Diarmuid finds he cannot breathe.

“I—” He is not sure what he wants to say. As he flails around his mind, he remembers his guilt over not truly knowing this man, and how callously he had accepted that lack of knowledge. “I want to know your name.”

The mute starts, though he does not pull away. He does, however, shake his head, a rejection of the request.

“But…” Diarmuid struggles to come up with a way to explain why this bothers him, without rambling on and on. The mute does not mind his rambling, normally, but this moment feels too precious to waste on many words. “I need to know what to call you. Now.”

That _now_ is different from before, when Diarmuid called the mute _friend_ and _you_ and nothing at all, does not need to be said out loud: it is understood without being fully understood. Or, at least, Diarmuid does not fully understand. He thinks perhaps the mute knows better; he’s seen so much of the world.

“I know there are many names,” he adds, “but perhaps I could list the ones I’ve heard of, and you could nod if I find yours…”

Another head shake, firmer: _No_. The mute withdraws his hand to roll up the sleeve of the rough woven tunic someone found for him to wear. Even that simple gesture reveals scars.

“Oh,” Diarmuid realizes. “Do you…do you not wish to go by your old name?”

The mute’s face loosens, relaxing. He is pleased Diarmuid understands, and that pleasure makes Diarmuid glow. He can accept that, and it makes him feel less guilty for not pressing the point in the past. But it does not settle the niggling feeling that things cannot go on as they have.

“Can I give you a new name?” he asks. “I need something to call you.”

The mute considers this. Slowly, he nods, but there seems to be a shrug with it, as if he does not really care.

“I’ll think on it,” Diarmuid assures him. “No need to rush.”

Internally, he adds it to his list of promises: he will find the perfect name.

\---

Two weeks later—two weeks of sleeping side-by-side, of the mute regaining his strength and Diarmuid paying back the village that has given them so much—they make their way to their new home. Diarmuid still has not found a name for his friend; each one he considers feels artificial or wrong. He almost settled on Michael, because the mute is both a warrior and an angel, fierce and kind, but then he thought of the scars, and decided it was better to leave the warrior in the past. But that led him back to nothing, and no other idea comes close to fitting.

So when they meet the farmer, Diarmuid is stuck saying, “This is the mute. He does not have a name, but he works hard.”

“Man that strong, I don’t care what he calls himself,” the farmer says. He’s gruff, but Diarmuid thinks he catches a kind sparkle in his eye, and he is clearly devoted to the family he introduces them to. He is delighted when he learns Diarmuid is good with the younger children—a skill picked up from remembering the games the kinder monks played with him when he had been too young to occupy himself with thoughts of God and chores alone.

“You will do well here,” the farmer says as he shows Diarmuid and the mute to the small barn that will serve as their resting place. The floor is thick with straw. “This is where you sleep. Stay quiet, be up by dawn, otherwise, I don’t care what you do in here.”

For some reason, those words make Diarmuid blush.

\---

That night, when the mute’s fingers, sure and steady, sneak below Diarmuid’s robes, brushing the skin on his stomach, sparking a stirring in his groin, he suddenly understands his blushing, and, more than that, his need for a name, for something to call the soul that belongs to the hands that can send such thrills across his body. 

_We cannot_ , he almost whispers, mind snagging on warnings about the pleasure of the flesh. But then the mute’s lips brush his and the words die in his throat, replaced by a new need he has no word for.

The mute’s fingers drift lower but then stop, hesitating, asking.

“Yes,” Diarmuid whispers. He is not sure what he is asking for when he adds, “Please,” but he is confident the mute will know.

\---

Diarmuid had no idea that falling apart in another’s arms could feel like revelation. He has learned many things about the world, recently; this one, at least, is good.

\---

He does not remember falling asleep, but when he wakes, covered in sweat and still buzzing with pleasure, he realizes his mind must have been working while he dreamed, because with consciousness comes the hazy memory of Gillie’s words, and an answer to the question of the name.

“My love,” he says, shaking the mute awake. “It’s time to wake up.”

The mute’s eyes open with the haste of a person who was already half awake. They are filled with wonder.

“Is that good?” Diarmuid asks. “To call you? Here, between us. I think…” He is not sure what he thinks, only that it feels right. It is not even a name, but it seems like an answer to the questions he is still piecing together. “I think it is what I want to call you.”

The mute, for the first time since he fell on those sands, smiles. 

Diarmuid takes that as a yes. 


End file.
